


Pure

by doomcanary



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Gender Roles, Genderfuck, M/M, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, you find things in the most unlikely of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summer  
Two years ago**  


 

Camelot seemed so distant from Ealdor, sometimes. Such a different world. The castle was vast, and complex, and corrupt in a thousand ways; Ealdor could never be anything like it, because it was small, and simple, and everyone knew everything, almost. Merlin moved through the castle as if in a dream, his heart still back in the woodsmoke air of home. In Ealdor, mornings had brought the smoke of hearth-fires, and the flap of clean white linen on washing-lines; and then Camelot had come there, and left behind the smoke of death, and shirts and bedclothes trampled on the ground.

In Camelot mornings, carrying Arthur's breakfast or clean clothes, he'd pass girls from the taverns leaving the guest wings, or court ladies walking with brittle dignity out of chambers that were not their own. Men too; knights who smirked through unshaven faces and pretty, soft-eyed boys who walked like cats. They most of all seemed to trail duplicity after them in the air, and Merlin would half-consciously pass them on the other side of the hall, unwilling to be tainted. Oh, he saw servants as well, fucking in the stable loft or exchanging promising glances in the halls outside feasts and balls; but that was Ealdor's way, the honest and simple way of finding a good girl, and marrying her once you were sure she could give you a child. There was a wedding or two every year among the servants, from what he'd heard. The court's way seemed to be a different thing, a maze of propriety and permissiveness; he neither could nor wanted to understand. He loathed secrets, more and more as he came to understand what his own were costing him.

Even Arthur, the sun-gold prince of the realm; even he was a creature of Camelot, of the world of half-truths and pretty lies. Every day Merlin saw things in Arthur's eyes that never reached his lips; contempt, anger, desire. How could he trust that noble face, when he knew it was a mask? How could he know what to believe? In Ealdor, Arthur had made bitter and subtle barbs about lying, as if he knew Merlin; and yet his eyes as Merlin moved among his friends, his people, had been desolate. Merlin, trapped between Arthur's lies and his own, had almost hated him then.

And now, as he moves about Arthur's chambers, feeling fine linens and rich velvets beneath his hands; now more than ever he knows the depth of the gulf that lies between them. As he smooths the shirts, neatly stacked in the linen press; as he brushes flecks of dust off the doublets, the velvet solid and yet soft. As the luxurious touch of these clothes suffuses him, he knows irrevocably that they are things of Camelot's world; these are the things that make up the beautiful shell and hide something darker at the core. Fine silks are a veil over corruption both petty and grand, a shield to conceal dissipation and falsity. Velvets cover truths known and yet unspoken; they furnish a life of choosing the lie, and hiding yourself. It's a world he never chose, and doesn't want; like a heavy coat that won't fit, or a cloak soaked with rain. It weighs him down and clings to his soul. Gently, he straightens a scarlet sleeve; in his heart, the soft beauty of the fabric wars with the perversity it represents. He sighs.

He feels a touch on his arm, as his hand lingers there. He turns, and sees Arthur, encased in scarlet almost identical to the one under his hand.

And oh, in his eyes, there's a world. His hand stays on Merlin's arm; mute, he speaks. His eyes say _I know_ , and his silence says _I will never say it_. He is a castle in himself, a court full of liars in their velvet gowns; his touch is a promise to take Merlin's hand, to guide him into another maze of gauzy honesty and velvet walls. There's something else there too, a sadness and an openness; but Merlin is a homespun thing, simple and straightforward. He never wanted this life.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

Arthur drops his hand, sets his jaw, and nods tersely before he turns away. Merlin knows he will never speak of it again; and he knows too that he's more alone than ever now.


	2. Prologue

**March, last year**

  
  
Merlin adjusted the laces of Arthur's cuffs, and straightened his Pendragon tabard.  
  
“Don't you think,” he said as he buckled on Arthur's sword, “that someone ought to look into this a bit more before the Crown Prince goes out to the border? The servants are saying some weird -”  
  
“Lord Fallon is a very ancient ally of the throne, and supporting our border lords in negotiating peace is the least Albion can do for a loyal knight.”  
  
“But really, everyone's saying -”  
  
Arthur interrupted. “If the King himself listened to servants' gossip before he made up his mind, the kingdom would be in a very great mess indeed. Hand me those bracers.”  
  
“Yes, sire.” Merlin sighed.  
  
“Is everything else ready, Merlin, or do I have to delay the entire party for your incompetence again?”  
  
“Clothing, weapons, food for the journey, your seal, my lord, all packed. We're only waiting for the scribe, and he's with your father.”  
  
“Good. Send the pack-horses off ahead, we'll catch them up.”  
  
“Sire, all the food for the journey's on them,” said Merlin in surprise.  
  
“That was not a request, Merlin,” said Arthur warningly. Merlin ducked out of the door and told the page holding the packhorses what Arthur had said; it was greeted with an eyeroll, and a jerk of the head to Sir Perceval, whom he served.  
  
“Here,” said Merlin as he went back into the armoury, holding out a bag. “At least take something for the journey on your horse. You never know.”  
  
“Don't be ridiculous, Merlin, I don't need a nursemaid. We'll be with them inside an hour, and we'll stop for lunch then. It'll be perfectly fine.” Arthur shouldered past him and walked out of the armoury, straight past the two laden packhorses, clopping across the courtyard after Perceval's mount.   
  
Of course, between the packhorses leaving and Arthur and his retinue setting out, the heavens opened in a drenching spring storm and the road turned to sucking mud; from a pleasant, if soft, path bordered by primroses and daffodils it turned to a thick glistening brown river, revolting against the delicate green of the trees. Then, two hours out from Camelot, the scribe's horse lost a shoe.  
  
“I'll have that bloody farrier flogged,” said Arthur, fruitlessly casting back and forth along the roadside for the shoe. Of course they'd brought horseshoe nails, but without the shoe itself they were useless. Merlin hunched his shoulders against the persistent drizzle - not that he could get much wetter after the storm - and wished he was the missing horseshoe, sinking peacefully into the comfortable mud with no further to go. Sir Ector beside him seemed to be thinking much the same.  
  
“Well, there's nothing for it,” said Arthur. “We'll just have to lead him. Merlin, let Cedric ride pillion with you.”  
  
“What? But -”  
  
“ _Merlin_ ,” snapped Arthur. Merlin gave in to the grim certainty that if he didn't do as he was told he'd be walking the rest of the way while Cedric rode his horse, and helped him up. Ector took the reins of the shoeless chestnut, staggering a little as his feet sank in the mud, and hitched it to his saddle. With Cedric's soggy grey cloak dripping water down his leg and reeking of wet wool, his plan to let his horse lag behind and quietly use magic to warm himself up again was a non-starter, and without the packhorses, of course, there wasn't so much as a chance of lunch. The bag of food slung on Merlin's saddle bow taunted him, but there was only enough for one, and the instant he opened it, everyone would want some. He left it alone, and sulked as his stomach growled.  
  
Better yet, mid-afternoon they found two enormous fallen trees across the path, brought down by winter storms and not yet cleared. They lay right where the road wound across the steep side of a hill; the forest around them was thick and the ground treacherous, sloping steeply and covered in a deep carpet of slippery, half-rotted leaves. Men and horses alike slipped, stumbled and sank in, and Merlin was pretty sure that if the horses could talk, they would have been swearing just as much as Arthur, Ector, Cedric and himself. By the time they arrived at Fallon Hall it was full dark and everyone was filthy, irritable and tired.  
  
“Boots, Merlin, now,” Arthur said, throwing himself into a chair in the square chamber he'd been given and snapping his fingers at his filth-encrusted feet. “And then get me some food, for pity's sake. Really, you should have known better than to let me leave unsupplied.”  
  
“Yes, sire,” said Merlin, and sighed.   
  
He stole some bread from Arthur's plate on the way back from the kitchens, saw the prince to bed with as little fuss as possible, and then snuck back to the kitchen to stuff himself with any leftovers he could find – until the kitchen-maid appeared in her nightgown and a sagging shawl, swore a blue streak at him for eating tomorrow's breakfast, and chased him off with the carving knife.  
  
Merlin peeled himself out of his stiffening, mud-plastered clothes, not an easy job to do in the narrow gap between two cots in a room full of other servants trying to sleep, and pulled on his ancient nightshirt. He crept as quietly as he could into the rustling, creaking bed, cringing as he heard Lord Fallon's steward give an irritated sigh in the corner and deliberately turn his back. Fallon Hall really wasn't set up for royal visits. He lay awake for ages, looking up into the fuggy dark and listening to farts and snores; at long last, he turned onto his side, reached down for his saddlebag, and pulled out an old, old cloth of silk, gossamer-soft with years. He wound it gently around his neck, and sighed again, altogether more pleasurably, at the cool feeling of it sweeping over his skin. He wound his hand into it, smiled into the glossy kiss it pressed against his lips, and slid his other hand down his body; minutes later he arched his back silently, biting down on a moan as he came. Not long after that he fell bonelessly asleep, his thumb stroking gently over the worn stitching of the scarf's silky hem. He'd worry about the mess tomorrow.  
  
  
  
The next day, however, brought mostly the realisation that Fallon Hall was not a particularly enjoyable place to be. The Fallon servants were almost universally sour-faced and sullen, and Merlin kept coming round corners and finding that conversations stopped when people saw him. He nodded and smiled, but their eyes followed him suspiciously until he passed by. Sometimes he managed to catch a couple of words; they seemed to be complaining about something, and once he caught the name 'Cendric'. He tried talking to them a couple of times, but beyond telling him where things were or who to talk to about laundry or wine, they were a pretty close-mouthed lot. He'd never felt more awkward than he did going to bed in the same room as them that night.  
  
By the time he'd been there a week, it also became apparent that the treaty was making truly glacial progress. He waited on Arthur during the talks, and a day or three in, he started to think the neighbouring lords had little to no interest in actually making it happen at all. They spent most of their time subtly insulting the elderly Lord Fallon, usually in voices slightly too quiet for him to hear properly, and insinuating that he'd lost his wits. Arthur never liked diplomacy at the best of times, and as the week went on he became increasingly tetchy; Merlin found himself constantly chasing his tail in the futile attempt to make the Prince happy. And still the treaty talks dragged on; inch by painful inch, a second week went by.  
  
By the end of that week, on an average day Merlin got told, as a minimum, that he was pouring the wrong kind of wine in the wrong amount, cleaning things the wrong way at the wrong time, that he was never there when he was wanted, and that he was always there when he wasn't. And, of course, that he'd packed completely the wrong clothes and equipment to start with anyway. Even Ector wasn't his usual irrepressible self; he spent half his time in the stables, silently watching the horses eat hay. It was about then that Merlin took to wearing his silk scarf all the time, like a neckcloth but tucked under his shirt. It was so old the colour had completely faded to a kind of ratty beige; it looked drab, so much so that it was hard to tell what it was made of. Nobody commented at all, not even Ector; but then it was hardly out of the ordinary to wear a scarf, given the nip in the spring air. And it was almost miraculous how much easier it was to cope once he'd given in. When Arthur started yet another sentence with that unmistakable “ _Mer_ lin”, and followed it with “you idiot” or “what on earth is this”, he could tilt his head as if listening; and as he did, he'd feel the silky slide of something decadent on his skin.  
  
  
  
The trouble, however, with nobody noticing your silk scarf to start with was this: it was easy to get complacent. Merlin almost got used to having it on; he started to forget what it was, what it meant. Who he was supposed to be in the day job. It had been yet another week, an endless, joyless week of tension and frustration and Arthur's mounting rage; Merlin came into the chamber Arthur was occupying to find him already drinking, staring morosely into the fire. He looked like a caged animal. Merlin sometimes thought that was what Arthur was; a hunter, a powerful, graceful beast, given human form and asked to cope with petty human vice. At moments like this, it didn't seem fair.  
  
“Arthur,” he said quietly. “You could always just go for a hunt, you know.”  
  
For a split second Arthur looked at him with such anguished want in his eyes that Merlin wanted to reach out and touch his face. And then his expression slammed closed like a trap.  
  
“If I hear you attempting to divert me from my duty again, Merlin, I will have you whipped,” he said. “And stop fiddling with that revolting old rag round your neck. You're a mess.”  
  
Merlin dropped his hand, unaware that it had crept up to finger the silk at his neck. Suddenly he was in that moment in Arthur's chambers again, his fingers on the heavy velvet of a doublet sleeve, Arthur touching him; once more he was standing at the edge of a long dark passage, that led down into some depth he couldn't name. He stood there for a moment, numb, but by the time Arthur added “Get out,” he was already backing towards the door. He went straight up to the reeking servants' dormitory, put his silk scarf carefully away, and replaced it with the blue neckcloth he always wore. Then he sat down on the end of his narrow straw bed, and tried not to burst into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**June, now**

 

The light coming in through the tall windows of the hall is full and clear; outside, there's a blue sky over Camelot, and powdery white clouds drift past. Arthur's body is standing perfectly still, relaxed and alert; but his mind's drifting, wandering along with the clouds, and he thinks he may be smiling to himself.

“Why are you doing this, again?” says Bedevere, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they wait. His chainmail makes him seem larger, somehow.

Arthur says nothing, just looks out at the sky.

“You sure Merlin's coming?” Bedevere goes on.

“Woman's prerogative, isn't it?” says Arthur. “Being late.”

“You said it, not me,” mutters Bedevere. Arthur quirks an eyebrow, and smiles. He's still standing at attention, with one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Even in front of the crowded room, he and Bedevere are still just two soldiers, waiting for something to happen. Arthur watches the clouds, and lets himself remember.

It started the moment he and Merlin met; the moment Arthur drew himself haughtily up, informed this scruffy, mop-headed peasant boy of his identity, and received in return not fear and deference, but biting sarcasm and an utter lack of respect. To find the same brat hitched to him as his manservant had been a sheer affront, something he'd have rebelled against if it had come from anyone other than his father and his king. But then – something had changed.

Arthur doesn't really know how to put his finger on what, or when. He doesn't know whether it happened before Merlin drank poison for him, or when he fell to the ground; whether he went into danger questing after a flower for guilt, or for Merlin. He doesn't know whether the coldness and anger he felt in a village square was against injustice, or against the love that shone for Merlin in the eyes of everyone around, a circle from which he was closed out.

He knows that he tried to touch Merlin once, after that; alone with Merlin in his chambers, he laid a hand on his servant's arm; didn't move it when Merlin turned.

Merlin had looked at him with blue, defeated eyes, and said, “I'm sorry.” Arthur had dropped his hand, and never spoken of it again.

Beside him, Bedevere fidgets, shuffling his feet. The sunlight on his chainmail sends flickers glancing everywhere, on the walls and the floor and into Arthur's vision. Arthur shoots him a glare.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Keep doing that and you will be,” says Arthur. “I haven't done the training roster for next month yet.”

Threatened with that, Bedevere manages something approximating stillness. Arthur looks down at the smooth stones of the floor; tadpoles of light shiver as Bedevere breathes. They're a big improvement over the luminous gnats.

It's extraordinary that he's here at all, really; it was only later, long after the whole abortive touching mess had died down, that the thing that... well, that really put them on the path that's brought them here happened. Not that he'd known it at the time; at first, Arthur simply couldn't comprehend what Merlin was up to at all.

It was early summer; he'd come stumping up to his chambers, fresh from the training field via the unwelcome discovery that Lord bloody Fallon was back at court again. As if the disastrous state visit in March hadn't been enough. What he'd found was Merlin, humming to himself as he tidied up. Everything Arthur needed for the evening was laid out ready, and a tureen on the table was filling the room with a rich savoury scent. Merlin had turned, and said “Arthur!”, his face lighting up in a smile.

And Arthur had stared, dumbfounded, as Merlin came over and took his gloves and sword; his smile and those wide blue eyes flicked up to Arthur's face every other moment as he gently removed them. As he turned, the wine-red skirt of the simple linen gown he wore swung out, and it moved and swayed with his steps as he walked away. The grey familiar stone of the walls suddenly seemed utterly alien, the dark wooden furniture new.

“Merlin?”

Merlin had turned, Arthur's things still in his hands, and Arthur had seen his open delight shutter itself; the smile faltered, giving way to fear. It hit him like a blow to the stomach; no, no, not what he meant. His instincts told him to shift his stance, get his feet back under him, get back into the flow of the fight. Get that look off Merlin's face.

“My cloak?” he said.

Merlin looked stunned for a moment, then he turned away again, going to the chest beside the wall to put the sword down. As he came back, Arthur saw that his hands were shaking, but a ghost of that smile had returned; he reached up to the ties at Arthur's neck and said, in a voice that only wavered a little, “I've only got two hands, you know.”

Arthur knew he'd bought himself time; he looked for a way to prolong it. He needed the next swing to make its direction clear, so he knew which way to dodge. There was a place neatly set at the table, before a steaming dish; this was it, this was what was going to come next. Merlin was looking away; he had room to move first.

He went to the table and lifted the lid of the tureen. It smelled wonderful.

“What's this?” he said.

Merlin turned instantly towards him again, though he was still folding the cloak.

“Rabbit,” he said, letting the cloak hang from his hands, a drape of lighter red over his skirt. His skirt, for all love - Arthur fought the press of uncomprehending panic, desperately trying to stay in the moment.

Merlin added shyly, “It's my mother's recipe.”

Arthur looked up at him, the lid still in his hand, and said, “It smells lovely.”

Merlin's face lit up, and he hurried to put down Arthur's cloak and come to the table to serve. Obediently, Arthur sat; he was hungry, after all. Food was familiar; safe enough ground. And it did smell very, very good.

The first mouthful confirmed it; Arthur savoured it for a moment. Somehow, the sense of panic was receding.

“Wonderful,” he said, then remembered his manners and swallowed. “Really, absolutely delicious.”

Merlin dropped his eyes and flushed with pride. Arthur couldn't imagine what on earth to say, so he went back to the stew.

“Where's the wine?” he said a few minutes later, as he scraped the last of the rich gravy up, and reached for the ladle to serve himself some more.

There was no answer. He looked round, ladle in hand.

“Merlin?”

“Here, sire,” said Merlin, appearing from the servants' door. He was – he was Merlin again. Neckcloth, breeches, casual insolence. Merlin. Arthur put down the ladle, carefully.

“Pour me some wine,” he said, experimentally.

“Of course, sire.” Merlin did just that, then stepped back, loose and alert. Just Arthur's servant; well, Arthur's servant as he was on a good day, at any rate.

“That will be all for now,” said Arthur slowly. “You can come back for the dishes later.”

“Very well, sire.” Merlin looked – pleased, somehow, or relieved perhaps, as he left the room.

Arthur fell back in his chair, completely unable to comprehend what had just happened. He stared after Merlin, then at his cloak and sword lying on the chest, as if they might hold answers. Nothing presented itself. He frowned, casting a glance around the room; it was just as before, sparsely decorated with candlesticks and Pendragon shields. Only the ghost of a wine-red skirt in his mind made it seem strangely small and new.

At a loss for any other response, he picked up the ladle again, and served himself a second helping of stew.

 

 

When Merlin did eventually come back for the empty plate, Arthur instantly noticed that a sort of sea-change had happened in him. He was tense, talking too fast about castle gossip and inconsequential nonsense; his hands fumbled as he shook out Arthur's evening shirt.

“Bridget said it was nothing to do with her of course, but everyone knows Thomas Wain's been in love with Gwen for ages, and -”

“Merlin,” said Arthur carefully, and Merlin started, his hands closing far too hard on the fine red cloth.

“I'd like to wear the dark red doublet today,” said Arthur. Cautiously, he let this statement stand, as if it needed time to soak into the air.

Perhaps it did. Arthur realised what he'd said; that doublet was almost the same colour as Merlin's wine-red – as what Merlin was wearing earlier. That... could be taken two ways, as statements go. He looked determinedly at the opposite wall; he'd thought it quite simply a matter of style. The wall remained impassive in the face of his concern.

“Yes,” said Merlin simply, and there was a tone in his voice Arthur didn't think he'd ever heard before. It was – new. And not entirely bad. Merlin went back to the linen press, put the red shirt away, and took out a white one instead.

His hands were still a little nervous as he dressed Arthur, but he was completely silent; he didn't look at Arthur's face at all. Not that he really needed to, since he was fastening shirts and lacing sleeves, but Arthur couldn't help but feel he was deliberately looking down. He stood back at last, and only then did Arthur see his eyes. Somewhere deep within them, there was just a hint of the same delight he'd seen before.

“Enjoy your evening, sire,” Merlin said, and smiled.

 

 

The next morning, September sun streamed in, setting the scarlet drapes ablaze; and Merlin was just as he'd always been, happy and feckless, getting things done apparently more by luck than judgement. Arthur still wasn't quite sure he understood what had happened yesterday, but it didn't look like it was going to be a problem, so he just let Merlin get him dressed, and got on with life.

It was a little over a week before he came back again from a long, unutterably tedious day of petitioning peasantry and interminable high councils to find Merlin in wine-red again. This time he was kneeling on the hearthstone and sweeping up the last of the ashes from the fire; a long white apron wrapped over the front of his skirt. There was a sumptuous meat pie waiting too, the crust glazed and golden; Arthur looked involuntarily from Merlin to the pie, and Merlin smiled, and hopped to his feet. It was packed solid with pigeon and salty minced ham; Arthur decided to take the opportunity to quite shamelessly stuff himself. Merlin wiped his hands on his apron, and poured some wine; Arthur could taste cloves and cinnamon in it, counterpointing the gamey flavour of the pigeon to perfection.

“I didn't know you were such a wonderful cook,” he said.

“Oh, I had help,” said Merlin, colouring in embarrassment. “Sally from the kitchens told me about the wine.”

“Send her my thanks,” said Arthur. “The pie's all yours, though?”

Merlin smiled, and there was that delight in his eyes again. Arthur found himself smiling too, pleased that he'd put it there. Abruptly he cleared his throat and looked away; this was Merlin, for goodness' sake, not some pretty little –

He took another bite of pie.


	4. Chapter 4

**April, last year**

 

As it turned out, even Fallon Hall wasn't _quite_ as bad as all that.

“Merlin,” said Arthur, the next evening when Merlin came in. Merlin stopped; when he saw Arthur, he'd made instantly to leave again.

“Sire?”

Arthur was standing by the fire, exactly as he did at Camelot; he turned to spread his hands on the tabletop, looked at Merlin for a moment, then dropped his head.

“I apologise,” he said. “I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. This whole affair is making me – unreasonable.”

“Um,” said Merlin. “Accepted? Er, thanks. Thankyou. Sire.” A weight lifted off his chest.

“What was that – thing, anyway?” said Arthur, gesturing at Merlin's neck. “You don't usually wear it.”

Self-conscious, Merlin fingered his neckcloth, rough blue fabric slowly softening with time; but not the same, not at all. Not the same.

“It's nothing, sire,” he said. “Just something I've had for a while.”

Arthur paused, and then gave a bitter little laugh. “I shouldn't have told you to take it off.”

Merlin's whole body reacted; his stomach flipped over, and instantly his heart was racing.

“Er, what?” he managed.

“Well, it seems to have inspired you to kindness, in spite of the way I've been treating you.”

“Um,” said Merlin helplessly, as the tide of emotion drained away and left him shaky.

“Don't think I don't appreciate the downside of your job, Merlin,” Arthur went on.

“Erm – thankyou.”

“Would you get me something to eat,” Arthur said. “Please.”

“Of course,” said Merlin, startled, and practically bolted out of the door. He brought Arthur an extra slice of meat, just because. That night, he reached down to his saddlebag to finger the aged silk, and wondered.

 

 

It wasn't often Arthur apologised, even in situations like Fallon Hall; Merlin took his time to savour it. It was something else that did a lot to ease the pain of the continued failure of the treaty, too. It was nearly a month before it became so plain not even the aging Fallon could deny it that there was no hope of sealing an agreement at all. Every time Merlin thought Arthur had the neighbouring lords cornered, they called a halt to the talks, or came up with new and more extravagant demands. By the time Arthur finally called Fallon into his chambers for an audience, May was smothering the orchards in drifts of pink and white, and Merlin was thinking of taking his doublet off. Ector just looked as if he needed a haircut, which wasn't unusual for him.

“Lord Fallon, it is increasingly evident to me that this treaty will never succeed as the situation stands,” said Arthur evenly.

Fallon's sunken lips worked, and he drew himself up to his full, still impressive height.

“Fallon has been an ally of Uther Pendragon since long before your birth, Prince Arthur,” he said angrily. “I have been given the King's most solemn assurances that Albion will not fail those loyal to it in their time of need.”

“The facts of the matter,” replied Arthur coolly, not moving from his chair, “indicate that in this particular moment, there is little Albion can do to succour you. I suggest that you endeavour to change those facts before wasting the time of His Majesty so carelessly again. I expect the pleasure of your hospitality tomorrow night, and I will depart the following day. That is all, Lord Fallon, you may go.”

Standing unobtrusively against the wall, Merlin fought down the urge to cheer. As soon as Arthur released him he raced to tell Ector the news, and was rewarded with such a pounding on the back he was sure he'd have bruises for days. In revenge, he offered to cut Ector's hair for the feast, and left his sideburns twice as long on the left as they were on the right.


	5. Chapter 5

**June, now**

 

The third time it had happened had been completely unexpected. Arthur really was in a towering bad mood that day; he recalls as clear as day the bone-scorching rage he'd been forced to swallow down and smile around, as he realised that Fallon was back at Camelot for the third frigging time in a year. And this time, all the polite discouragement in the world wasn't working; the old man's eyes were hard. When he'd finally shaken off his advisors, he'd come storming through the sunlit castle like the wrath of some ancient god, slammed open the door to his chambers, slammed it shut again – and stopped dead. There was a whole glorious spread of food waiting; a glowing compote of apricots and raspberries, roast gammon, creamy mashed potato and bright green peas. This time Merlin wasn't fussing about with cleaning and tidying, he was sitting on the window-seat with something blue spread over his lap. Sewing. It took him a moment to look up, despite the racket Arthur had made when he came in.

“Oh, there you are,” he said. “I was worried it would get cold.”

There were little candles burning under the trivets the food rested on, all except the fruit compote.

Arthur blinked at their squat white forms for a moment, and then said, “Well.”

Then he said “Best tuck in before it does, then.”

Merlin put his embroidery down – it had been at least two months since he had gammon, thought Arthur determinedly, how wonderful, and how completely not to do with Merlin _sewing_ – and went to the table; it took another moment for it to register on Arthur that Merlin was waiting expectantly for his master to sit down.

The meal was glorious; everything Arthur liked, and more than enough of it to take the sting out of the day. He inhaled the gammon as if it was good fresh air, barely noticing Merlin giving a fond little tutting noise and going back to the window seat. When he got to the fruit, his eyes widened; it was steeped in some sort of liqueur, sweet and gingery. Before he knew it he'd jumped up from his chair, bowl in hand, and gone over to Merlin, animatedly waving the spoon.

“Have you tried this stuff?” he said. “It's fantastic!”

“No, it's another one of Sally's,” said Merlin, looking up in surprise.

Arthur dug the spoon into the dish, and stuck it out.

“It's astonishing, really, have some.”

He expected Merlin to take the spoon from his hand; he didn't. He leant forward, and ate straight from the spoon, steadying Arthur's hand with his fingertips. Then he made an overwhelmed little sound, and closed his eyes; his face was a picture of pleasure.

 

 

And that was when the penny had dropped for Arthur, he knows now as the shadows of clouds chase across the walls; that was when he'd realised there was a connection between his single, abortive touch and the first time he'd found Merlin wearing – those clothes. He'd seen Merlin pleased, relaxed, content; but never overturned by pleasure as he'd been in that moment, or alight with joy, the way he still looks whenever Arthur compliments his food. It's as if the swing of skirts gives him space to be something else; as if all those breeches and neckcloths had been constricting and oppressing him, stifling the Merlin who brings Arthur delicious things and delighted smiles. And a great deal more, too, come to that.

Bedevere coughs, and shuffles his feet again. High in the distant sky outside, a hawk drifts, black and angular.

 

 

“Oh,” Merlin said, somewhat breathily. “It is good, isn't it.” He looked up at Arthur; his pupils were actually wide, as if swallowing that cool gingery sweetness had done something entirely different to him. Gods, he really looked – turned on. Arthur couldn't take his eyes off it; slim wine-coloured shoulders and dark hair, framing pink lips and long-lashed eyes.

“Absolutely,” was all he could think of to say. It sounded utterly inane, but nobody was listening; his eyes were locked with Merlin's, and they were both completely still.

Merlin seemed to come back to himself, and looked away, flushing.

“You should finish it, then,” he said.

Arthur looked down at the glass dish in his hand, the spoon dangling from his fingers.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said.

He went back to the table and sat down; and when he looked up again, he was not at all surprised to see that Merlin had gone.

 

 

The next week was nothing out of the ordinary, in Camelot's terms. That idiot Fallon had plenty of competition to keep him out of the king's way, at least; nobles turned up in apparently endless procession to stand in the high vaulted throne room in their fancy doublets and whine. They whined at Uther about borders, bandits and barley, tithes and taxes, marriages, men-at-arms, and a hundred other meaningless things. Arthur sat at his father's side and didn't permit himself to look bored. At every possible opportunity he escaped to train with the knights, to work on Perceval's confidence and push Yvain just enough to make him try; and at last, blessedly, Uther declared two solid days of hunting as an entertainment.

Merlin was beside him on the hunt; he managed his horse quite well these days, and also for once seemed to be managing not to say something loud and unhelpful just when he ought to shut up. Around the straggling party the forest waned towards autumn; yellow touched the treetops, and the sun beat less heavily upon both horses and men. The hooves of Arthur's black and Merlin's little bay rustled as they shifted among the first drifts of leaves. Arthur felt weight lifting from him, evaporating; as the sun slid behind clouds and a cold breeze stirred his hair, he was just another hound, scenting free air and anticipation. It would be a wonderful day.

When they got back, he was cold and the excitement was wearing off, and much like a hound there was nothing he wanted more than a meal to destroy and a fire to warm his full belly. Merlin set about the fire cheerfully, coaxing the banked-up embers of the morning's blaze back to life, and then disappeared out of the servants' door towards the kitchens. He came back with a spatchcock, hot mulled ale and a crusty hunk of bread, butter waiting yellow in a dish. Just Merlin; just breeches, and shirt, and a tan-coloured doublet.

The food was wonderful, and left Arthur almost sleepy with pure physical satisfaction. But as he'd sat by the fire with his mug of ale, he remembers that he frowned into the flames. Somehow there was something missing; he wanted something more. Not food; not warmth... not a woman, either. This wasn't the bite of lust, it was something else, a vague and aimless ache. The tankard in his hands was warm, but heavy and metallic; right, and yet wrong. He'd sipped from it thoughtfully, bemused.

 

 

Bedevere really doesn't know how to stand still at all, at least not for any length of time. The gnats of light are back again, the sun wandering back and forth across him as he shifts. Arthur looks exasperatedly up, towards the window arch.

“Sorry,” mutters Bedevere, for the second time.

“No problem at all,” says Arthur. “Just be aware I'll be training that out of you for at least six weeks.”

Bedevere tugs at the cuff of his shirt, beneath his mail.

“Seven weeks,” says Arthur.

 

 

Bedevere had been there on the hunt, as well. Lunch on hunting days was always a hasty affair, a kind of brutish picnic of cold cuts and warm beer and bread ripped up with grubby hands; but Merlin had seemed depressed by it that day, sitting apart from the knights as they laughed and tossed jokes back and forth. He only got up from his tree-bole when Arthur beckoned him to pour, and Bedevere and Ector had shot looks at each other when he did. Their pages only came along to learn about hunting, not to serve meals. In fact, the two knights seemed to enjoy helping themselves; Ector passed the flagon of ale along with cheerful good humour, and Bedevere played subtle, elaborate games with everyone, tossing in misdirecting remarks and trying to outmanoeuvre the whole party to win the last piece of meat. But something in the way he looked at Merlin made Arthur uncomfortable; a kind of assessment, as if he was judging Arthur for Merlin's presence there. Arthur thought back to the night before, and frowned again.

As they packed the meal away, he took a brace of the rabbits they'd shot that morning, and went over to Merlin where he was helping load the pack-pony up again.

“I'd like you to go back to the castle,” he said, handing him the rabbits, flaccid under their grey fur.

“Sire?” said Merlin.

“This time, I think I'd rather have the fire ready and waiting when I come in,” said Arthur. “And perhaps some of that delicious rabbit stew.”

There was a pause; Merlin looked at the rabbits.

“Will there be anything else, sire?” he asked.

“No,” said Arthur. “I liked the stew the way it was.”

Merlin looked up sharply, uncertain. Arthur held his eyes.

“Exactly the way it was,” he said.

Merlin's eyes went wide.


	6. Chapter 6

**May eve, last year**

 

The feast on the last night at Fallon Hall was a glorious mess. Lord Fallon covered resentful glares with mediocre attempts at urbanity, and Arthur wasted not a single chance to be the kind of spectacularly arrogant ass only a demob-happy prince could be. Merlin felt as if his pleased smirk was going to become permanently etched into his face, and generously refilled Arthur's goblet with Fallon's most expensive wine. Arthur winked at the serving-girls, pretended not to hear half of Fallon's remarks, and got the name of his daughter wrong three times.  
After the feast, as was perfectly traditional, the servants sat up late, finishing the leftovers. Fallon's lot were dejected and bitchy, no doubt looking forward to a bad week under a foul-tempered master; Merlin waited for a disorderly moment when people were getting up and moving around, made the fire snap with a flash of magic hidden by lowered eyes, and while everyone's heads were turned, tucked a flask of the expensive wine into his doublet.

“Well, time to turn in,” he said.

He didn't go back to the servant's dormitory at all. The chamber Arthur had been loaned was Fallon's own, and off it was a wardrobe, a small rectangular room. It had been mostly cleared of Fallon's things, but Merlin had seen what was left, and a wicked idea was forming, riding on the taste of the wine. Arthur was out for the count, happily drunk and passed out in a sprawl across the inadequate bed; he didn't so much as murmur when Merlin let himself quietly in and padded across the room, boots in hand.

Left on a rack at the back of the wardrobe, covered with a cloth, were Fallon's winter cotehardies, immense loose velvet things, ridiculously unfashionable now – but they were soft and sensual to the touch, and Merlin had been stroking them in snatched moments ever since he'd discovered them. Tucked away among them was a great fur robe, open at the front and without sleeves. It was warm, far too warm for May; but when Merlin had turned it on its wooden hanger, curious, it had opened, and he'd gasped at the sight of the lining. It was the most breathtaking wine-red silk, glossy, the colour intense, and Merlin had known in that instant that he wanted to feel that silk, next to his skin.

Balancing a frustrated Arthur against an unfamiliar manor had left him with no time, and Arthur's outburst had left him cautious; but now, now they were leaving. Now Fallon was in disgrace and even Arthur was cheeking him off. This was his chance. He tugged the cloth covering off the rack, and dropped it carelessly on the floor. He shed his doublet, then his overshirt; the horrible neckcloth was next. Barefoot, in just his shirt and breeches, he slid a hand over the velvet cotes and across the fur; slipped his fingers inside the robe. The feel of the silk made him shiver, heavy and smooth as ice. He stepped back, hunted the flask out of his doublet and took a long swallow, wanting to draw this out.

As he stripped off his shirt he felt as if the tawny fur robe was a lover, waiting for him; he could feel himself getting hard, just imagining it against him. He paused again, adjusted himself, let his palm ghost over his cock outsde his clothes. Took another mouthful of wine.

And then; then came the moment when he took his lover in his arms, when he brushed his fingers through her soft, soft down of hair, and slid himself into her. The robe closed about him with a heavy, slippery weight, more arousing and more obscene than any woman could ever be; his skin came up into goosebumps, and his cock strained, achingly hard. Involutarily he wrapped his arms around himself, stroked his chest, pressed against the fur and ruffled it so the silken lining moved against his skin. His head fell back, and hit the wall; he must be leaning against it, then, hardly able to hold his own weight. With feverish urgency he tore at his belt and the laces of his breeches, and finally, they slid loose, and he was naked, wrapped in silk.

 

 

It was the aftermath that he hated; the slow sinking back down to earth, the sticky hand and the horrible knowledge that he had to strip this off, jilt his silken lover and leave her behind. No falling asleep with her now, enfolded in her beautiful embrace; just the dull red shirt, limp and pathetic on the ground, the worn breeches that clung to his legs demandingly, and the heavy, sullen weight of his doublet.

The wine was stronger than he'd thought as well; trying to get back to the servants' quarters he took a wrong turn. And that was how he ended up in Fallon's library, looking down at a cracked and curling map; it looked like the border of Albion, only missing half the manor houses. The date in the top corner filtered through to his mind; gosh, he thought hazily, that's older than Gaius is.

 

 

It wasn't until the next morning, his mouth thick and his eyes red as he loaded the packhorse, that he remembered the date again; sober, he suddenly understood what all Fallon's servants had been bitching about ever since Arthur arrived.

“You all right, Merlin?” said Ector, as Merlin froze in the act of hoisting a pack of Arthur's clothes onto the horse's back.

“Yeah, fine,” said Merlin. “Just thought I'd forgotten to wash something.”

Well, he had. But he _definitely_ didn't have to feel bad about the state of the fur robe now.


	7. Chapter 7

**June, now**

 

On that second day, the hunting party came tumbling home like a pack of dogs, noisy and exultant. Arthur spent only the minimal time slapping backs and congratulating the skilful on their kills. He shed his sword in the armoury, and climbed the stairs to his rooms two at a time. He opened the door with a slight sense of nervous expectation; and stepped into a firelit paradise. Merlin had outdone himself; somehow, the room seemed richer, as if there were tapestries on the walls, though there were none. A faint scent of oranges floated in the air, and the table wasn't just set with a tureen, it was laid with a white cloth and a silver candlestick. And beside the wonderful, wonderful stew was a glass dish on a tall foot, with – oh, miracle, more of that glorious apricot thing. And beside that there sat a little dish of cakes, each one decorated with coloured fondant icing and little flecks of gold.

And there by the fireside, clasping his hands together and smiling shyly at Arthur, was Merlin. Arthur went over to him, feeling a smile spread across his face; Merlin saw it and blushed, running a self-conscious hand over the neck of his dress. It was a different one – Arthur thought he recognised the blue fabric he'd seen Merlin sewing. A girdle of fine silver links sat around his waist, and the neck of the gown was embroidered, little falcons in deeper blue with eyes of silvery white. Had Merlin really done that himself?

“This is,” said Arthur, encompassing the room with a gesture, “marvellous. I wasn't expecting – all this.”

Merlin glowed; Arthur thought he'd seen delight in his eyes before, but this was a sunrise. Arthur reached out, and gently took Merlin's hands in his.

“Thankyou,” he said.

“It – it's nothing, really,” said Merlin. His hands were cool in Arthur's; but there was a ghost of tension in them, as if the rest of him was anxious.

“I'd like you to join me,” said Arthur. “For dinner.”

“Arthur, I can't do that -”

“Nonsense,” said Arthur, a gentle reproof. “You've put far too much work into this not to enjoy it yourself. Please.” He lifted one of Merlin's hands gently, indicating the table.

“Arthur, there's only one plate.”

“Well, then,” said Arthur. “I suppose we'll just have to be traditional.”

 

 

Arthur drew up a second chair, beside his own; Merlin sat down, smoothing nervous hands over his blue skirt, and Arthur ladled out some of the stew. He handed the spoon to Merlin, and took a chunk of bread for himself. He was about to start eating when he noticed Merlin looking at him oddly.

“I thought the prince was supposed to be the one with manners?” said Merlin, raising an eyebrow. Arthur felt himself smile; it was just like Merlin's normal, cheeky self.

“He's also the one who can decide nobody has to bother with them at all,” he said cheerfully, and used his finger to shove some meat onto the bread.

Merlin grinned, and his hand brushed Arthur's as he pushed the spoon into the stew.

Arthur felt oddly as if Merlin wasn't wearing long blue skirts at all, while they ate the rabbit; Merlin kept smiling at him, and playfully elbowing his arm out of the way to get to the food, and Arthur elbowed back, and stole Merlin's bread, only to have it stolen again in turn. It was when they reached the fruit, the pink of the raspberries intense against golden-orange and the liqueur a tawny pool around them both, that Arthur paused, and glanced at Merlin; Merlin looked down at the spoon in his hand, and toyed with it, spinning the stem between his fingers.

He looked up at Arthur again as he took a spoonful of the fruit, and lifted it to his lips; Arthur held Merlin's eyes as Merlin handed the spoon to him. The bite of the ginger on his tongue was just as peppery, the syrup as sweet, the raspberries as sharp; Merlin's eyes, watching him, were cloudy blue and deeper than they'd ever been. They ate the fruit slowly, handing the single spoon back and forth; until Arthur paused, took a second spoonful from the dish, and held it out to Merlin.

Merlin took a single raspberry from it with his fingers, and put it in his mouth. He seemed to consider Arthur; Arthur picked up one of the apricots from the spoon, and ate that himself. Merlin touched his hand again, and ate the last of it from the spoon, enclosing its richness in lips that were full, and looked soft.

Arthur picked up the glass dish, and swirled the golden-brown syrup in the bottom of it thoughtfully. A few berries were left, and a solitary apricot. He dipped a finger in, and licked it.

Merlin took the spoon, captured one of the raspberries, and held it up to Arthur. Arthur took it gently, leaning forward in his chair. His face was close to Merlin's; Merlin smiled.

“Shall we sit by the fire?” Merlin said softly.

 

 

“Seriously,” says Bedevere. “Where is he?”

“How should I know?” says Arthur. “I'm not his bloody mother.”

“You don't think -”

“Bedevere,” says Arthur. “If he said he was coming, he'll be here. I swear, you're more worried about this than I am.”

Bedevere clears his throat, and shuffles his feet again. “As long as you're sure,” he says.

“Eight weeks,” says Arthur, definitely smiling now. “Shut up, Bedevere.”

Behind them, a susurrus of rustling gowns and fluttering fans stirs the air of the lofty room.

 

 

Merlin's eyes had flicked down to the glass dish in Arthur's hand; Arthur put it down on the pristine cloth. He reached out, stroked his fingers gently over Merlin's shoulder, down onto his arm; and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of Merlin's mouth. Merlin's lips parted, his head turning to follow the touch, and Arthur only partly withdrew. Merlin looked down at Arthur's mouth, and returned the kiss.

The late summer twilight was long, and the fire kept the chill from the room; twined in the tall chair with its indulgent sheepskins, Arthur and Merlin traded slow kisses, tasting ginger and otherness.


	8. Chapter 8

**The second day of May, last year**

 

“Sire, there's really something you ought to know about Fallon -”

Arthur slammed down his pewter cup irritably. “Merlin, how many times do I have to tell you? I do not take advice from my servants.”

“It's important!”

“How on earth,” said Arthur, pinching his brows, “would a man who who spends his time folding laundry and fetching buckets of water know anything about what's important to the king?”

“Because half the time servants know more about their masters than they know about themselves?” said Merlin, nettled.

Arthur glared. “Get out, Merlin, and get everything from the horses properly stowed.”

“Shouldn't I lay you out a doublet for your meeting with His Majesty first?”

“If you must,” says Arthur. “And then, you will take the rest of the day off. I don't want to catch sight of you again, is that clear? Go and – enjoy yourself. Whatever servants do.”

It wasn't an offer, so much as an order. Arthur wasn't going to listen to him whatever he tried. Servants did not know better, in Arthur's world.

“Yes, sire,” said Merlin dejectedly.

On the up side, it was nice to have an afternoon off. Gaius was out, and Merlin was glad, since it meant he couldn't lose his free time to errands; he went up to his room, and sat down on the bed, almost at a loss. Impulsively, he opened the compartment in the floorboards; under the magic book was his silk scarf, and he took it out and ran it through his hands, considering. A long lazy afternoon with just himself and his dreams was a rare thing.

But left in the bottom of the gap, underneath everything else, was the old darned sock he kept his money in; it was looking pretty well stuffed, now that he looked at it. Merlin realised he hadn't had a chance to wander round the market in quite a while. Maybe there'd be a book he could surprise Gaius with, or something pretty he could give to Gwen. Or maybe he could get himself some new boots, at long last. He folded up his scarf, and put it gently back, resting the heavy book over the top of it. Later, he told himself; there's plenty of time for that. Waiting, knowing he was going to come back for it, always made it better anyway.

The market square on an ordinary day was bustling and cheery; crowds of boys ran through the stalls yelling after one another, and women haggled over fruit and loaves while fishwives, reeking like their catch, hawked their wares at the top of their strident lungs. The nicer end of the square was hardly any quieter, since there was a knot of Moors behind the spice-seller's stall beating drums in a weird rhythm like nothing Merlin had ever heard before; some of them were dancing, raising a cloud of dust as they stamped their feet. He squeezed past the crowd in front of the aromatic sacks of spice, and went to look at the goldsmiths' shop-fronts along the wall.

Most of the things he could see were far too pretty; they'd give Gwen the wrong idea. He was taken by a little silver chain that seemed to work like a belt, but it didn't seem like the kind of thing she liked. He decided to go and find the bookseller instead. Threading back down through the stalls, he found himself in the row where all the clothiers had their stalls; an eddy in the crowd opened up a gap, and Merlin stopped dead. A flash of colour; and a sweep of dizzy emotion came over him.

It was a bolt of linen cloth, lying innocently across the stall. The exact same intense deep red as the lining of the fur robe at Fallon Hall. Gods, it was making his cock twitch, with the memory. And yet he was horrfied at feeling it - at being struck with something so private here. It felt as if his secret nights were laid out in the market-place, to be picked over by haggling wives. He turned, and hurried on; only to stop, round the next corner, trying to breathe normally while he pretended to look at reels of thread.

Could he leave it? Could he walk away? He tugged his loose doublet closed, concealing the growing hardness of his cock. Gods, how could he leave that behind, when he had the money to take it with him, carry it away to somewhere that really was private? But how could he walk up to a merchant in broad daylight, and buy it?

“Come on,” Merlin muttered to himself. “You've been shopping for Arthur for months.”

And Arthur had, after all, told him to enjoy himself.

 

 

“How much is that?” said Merlin.

“Fourpence a yard.”

“Holy bloody Mercury,” said Merlin. “You're not trying to sell it, then?”

“That colour? Fair price. Takes three dyeings to get it.”

“Tell you what,” said Merlin. “If I buy enough to make the wife a dress, how about you do it half price?”

“Come off it. She'd have to be a whale. Threepence ha'penny.”

“No, no,” said Merlin. “Not for that colour. Looks nice on her, but she doesn't like it; I'll never hear the end of it if I pay that much. Two and three farthings.”

“Three, and that's the best you'll get in Camelot.”

“And you'll throw in some thread, of course. To match.”

The merchant muttered resentfully as he got out his shears, but his heart wasn't in it. Thread wsn't that pricey, after all.

“Enough for a nice big skirt,” said Merlin on impulse.

“Tall lass, is she?”

“About the same as me.” Merlin flushed a little as he said it, his well-practised haggling persona cracking.

“That'd be a yes, then,” said the merchant dryly. He must be taking Merlin for a newlywed.

Merlin handed over two whole shillings, the most he'd ever spent on one thing, and the merchant folded the cloth.

“Aren't you going to wrap that up?” said Merlin, blushing in earnest as he realises he's got to carry his trophy home. “I don't want her seeing it.”

The merchant rolled his eyes, and found a scrap of hessian to cover it.

“Hope she likes it,” he said, handing the nondescript bundle over.

“Oh, I know she will,” said Merlin. And something in his tone made the cloth-merchant give him a very funny look.

As he left the market-place, he had to walk carefully, he was so hard. He made it back to the castle and his room; Gaius, wonderfully, was still away. He'd have run up the stairs if he could, but he couldn't make himself move that fast; he felt like he was trapped in honey, the weight of promise hidden under rough cloth in his arm. He put the cloth down on his bed, and on his knees he unwrapped it, unfolded it; his bed disappeared under a bloody tide, a chaos of creases and rich, rich sin. His. His hand was on his cock, over his breeches, brushing slowly over it, without him really thinking about it; he lifted the corner of the wine-red cloth, breathed in the acrid smell of the mordants that set the dye. Its touch was cool, a yielding smoothness; not the glossy, decadent slide of silk, not something that overcame him... it was seduction. This rich flood of colour whispered to him about what they'd be together, murmured words that rippled like the flow of skirts around his thighs. You and me, she said; you and me, we'll take the world apart.

Merlin came with his face buried in her scarlet folds, his free hand clenched on her, desperately dreaming. The scents of alum and ash and piss were all around him, the filth through which his love had been to bring out her beauty. He'd make such things out of her; and she, she'd make him something he's never been.

 

 

When Gaius banged on his door he started awake, sprawled across his bed with the cloth pulled over him like a blanket; his breeches were half fastened, and he bundled the cloth away into his cupboard as he shouted “What is it?”

“Your job, Merlin,” came Gaius's dry voice in the near-dark. “Apparently Prince Arthur requires your services.”

“What?” said Merlin, opening the door to candle-light. He knew he must look wrecked, and Gaius's sharp eyes flicked over his face; Merlin hated the way Gaius was always observing, but never commented or reacted. Ector's page was in the workroom downstairs, skinny and too big for his clothes.

“He's in his chambers,” the boy said. “Some poor sod ought to get him to bed.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. He had a feeling he knew what he was going to find.

And he was right; when he let himself in, the first thing he saw was two empty flagons on the side table; there was another one on the table. Beside it a goblet lay on its side, and Arthur's hair caught the firelight, where he'd fallen forward onto his arms on the tabletop. Merlin had seen him do this before, when something had really gone wrong; sit on his own, and slowly and methodically get utterly shitfaced. He guessed the meeting with Uther hadn't gone well. He crossed to Arthur, whose head moved loosely at the sound of his footsteps, as if he was trying to lift it.

“Up you come, sire,” he said quietly, sitting Arthur up.

“Iss a load of bloody bollocks,” Arthur informed him.

“Is that right.”

“Couldn' have done i' right. Iss you, isn' it?”

“Merlin, yes.”

“You were there.” Arthur seemed to sharpen suddenly.

“Come on, let me get your boots off.” Merlin tugged the big chair back from the table by main force; it grated on the stones, and Arthur swayed, belatedly grasping for the armrest.

“You were there,” Arthur said again. “You saw. Couldn' have done it better.”

Merlin worked out what Arthur was talking about: the treaty. No, Uther wouldn't have forgiven Arthur for that, would he.

“Probably not,” he said. “Other leg.”

Arthur lifted it, or did something that could charitably be described that way, his usual stubbornness about physical things strangely disconnected from his determined train of thought.

“I didn' do it wrong,” said Arthur, as Merlin discarded his other boot, and came to the side of the chair to get Arthur's arm over his shoulders. “I didn'. Did I?” He jerked his arm free, with the strange lax violence of the very drunk, and glared at Merlin hazily.

“We need to get you to bed,” said Merlin. “Come on, I'll help.”

“I didn' do it wrong. You know that.”

Merlin squatted down in front of Arthur, and took the prince's face in his hands. Bloodshot bule eyes blinked at him.

“No,” he said . “You didn't. Your father's a sod sometimes, okay? You know that. Come on, Arthur, you're going to pass out in a bit, and I can't lift you.”

Arthur's hand meandered up from his knee, bumped Merlin's cheek on its way to its goal – and settled on the silk cloth wrapped around his neck. Shit, when did that get there?

“Merlin,” said Arthur, leaning forward.


	9. Chapter 9

**June, now**

 

After that long, slow, marvellous evening, Arthur finds it strange to realise that the world in fact went on as it always had. The seasons continued to turn; late summer had become early winter, and a biting cold set in. Arthur recalls how he found that Merlin wore his gowns less and less often, and when he did, he stood close to the fire, tense with the chill. And how he also found that this disappointed him, and subsequently that a good deal of wine was a great help in adjusting himself to the implications of such things.

Then he'd had an idea. He left a length of winter-white wool cloth in his chambers, with a note that read simply “Make yourself something.”

It was two weeks before Merlin came up to him wearing it; when he did, it was beautiful, his dark hair a searing contrast against the white. Arthur went to him, touched his shoulder as he always did, and then slipped his arms around Merlin's waist.

“I've had a horrendous day,” he said. “That's just made it bearable, I think.”

Merlin smiled, and kissed him. “You made my whole week,” he said.

“So I see,” said Arthur with a smile.

“What was so awful about today, then?” Merlin asked.

“Bloody Lord Fallon and his endless border war,” said Arthur.

“ _Again_?”

“Again. Can we spare knights, why not, well can we send him someone else to negotiate then, blah blah staunch supporter of Camelot for many years.”

“That old coot would do well to remember that you don't stop a border war by telling your neighbour there isn't one going on,” said Merlin sharply.

“What?” said Arthur, holding him a little further away.

“Haven't you talked to his people? He spends half the time back at his manor sending rude letters to the next lord over telling him how there was never a border problem in the first place, because two hundred years ago someone made a map that didn't have his manor on it at all.”

“That was before the last war with Cendric!” said Arthur.

“He's got the map in his library. I saw it in March.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Well, maybe,” said Merlin pointedly, “someone in a position of authority should tell him so.”

“Merlin, I think I love you,” said Arthur. “Don't move an inch. I'll be back.”

He raced out of the room. A wintry look appeared in his father's eyes as he explained the matter and suggested a word with Fallon's advisors as confirmation, and he dismissed Arthur with a decisive nod. Arthur tore back to his rooms with a pure, perverse glee bubbling in his chest, picked Merlin right up off his feet, and kissed him.

“You really must tell me home truths like that more often,” he said. “You have no idea how much trouble you've just saved.”

“Don't you be so sure,” said Merlin, wrapped his legs round Arthur's waist, and kissed him back hard.


	10. Misrule

By March, Merlin was an astonishment. As soon as he was free of his servant's garb, he became a wildcard, as likely to burst in and throw Arthur onto the nearest tabletop as he was to roll his eyes and comment dryly – and with razor-edged accuracy – on the hypocrisies of the court. Arthur adored the hours he spent with Merlin; lounging on the window seat, curled in chairs before the fire, or lost in an endless sea of skirts, stroking and kissing his slim form, rich coloured gowns spreading wide across his bed. Merlin would let Arthur touch him, stroke his hardness through the gowns, then slide a hand inside his breeches and expertly work him until he came; sometimes, he would take Arthur's cock in that soft pink mouth, and Arthur would see stars. But he never let Arthur touch him the same way – although Arthur remembered with considerable pride the day he'd sent Merlin home with a dark wet mark on the front of his dress, after he'd made an offhanded remark about getting Merlin some silk to sew, and how pleasant he'd always found the feel of it against his own skin. Merlin had lost himself, thrusting wildly against Arthur's steady hand, and come so hard he'd been incoherent.

The first of April was misrule day, and on misrule day, anything went. Arthur told Merlin what he was thinking a week before; Merlin went very still, and then flushed, and started shaking again, like the very first time Arthur had ever seen him dressed.

“Arthur, it's – it's not the same,” he said. “I can't do that.”

“Can't?” said Arthur. “I'll be wearing a pair of cuckold's horns. You really won't be the biggest fool there.”

“Cuckold's horns?” said Merlin. He was still wide-eyed, but he looked intrigued despite himself.

“Tradition, apparently,” said Arthur. “You can be my faithless lover, if you like.”

Merlin smiled. “Perhaps I will,” he said.

And in the end, as Arthur thought he would, he did it. He wore his simplest wine-red dress, and gasped with delight when Arthur presented him with a new girdle, this one of gold and pearls. There was a tiny necklet to match it, that emphasised Merlin's slender neck. He tucked his hand through Arthur's arm as they left his chambers, and as they wandered through the crowd of harlequins and dragons and green men and hobby-horse knights that spilled out of the great hall and down the main stairs, Arthur grinned at the startled faces, and Merlin shot him outrageously lustful looks under his lashes. When Morgana strode up to them, dressed in a perfect replica of a knight's livery, even down to the mail, Merlin looked her up and down appreciatively too, and smiled.

Morgana smiled back, a look that slithered over her face slowly, assessing him. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” she said, her eyes on Merlin. “You'll end up with horns, with this one.”

“Horns?” said Arthur blandly, patting Merlin's arm where it was linked through his. “What horns?”

Morgana grinned. Merlin leaned over, and gave her a kiss on her fair-skinned cheek; he let it linger, just slightly. She raised her eyebrow, speculative, as he pulled away.

A little later, Sir Kay appeared, threading his way through the crowd. He was dressed as a Turkish boy, bare-chested in loose flowing trousers and a sash of silk. On the side of his neck was a reddish-purple mark like a bite.

“Sire,” he said. “An invitation from the lady Morgana, for your lady and yourself. She will be holding an entertainment in her chambers, after the feast tonight.”

Arthur glanced at Merlin, and saw the curiosity and intrigue on his face.

“We'll drop in,” he said. It couldn't hurt, on Misrule Day.

At the feast, Uther himself interrupted them, clad in his most formal doublet, topped off by a feathered hat just like Merlin's. He lasciviously complimented Merlin on his “delectable” looks, and Arthur on his luck.

“I trust you'll be dancing for us later?” he added. “I can't imagine a better couple to open the ball.”

“Privacy?” sniffed Merlin, disdainfully eyeing the King. “Do they have that in palaces too?”

Arthur looked away, shoulders shaking with laughter. Behind him, Uther cleared his throat, as if he was trying not to laugh himself.

“I wish you many happy years with your lovely and obedient wife, my son,” said the king, and clapped Arthur on the back.

“You are going to get yourself beheaded,” said Arthur, wiping his eyes.

“Oh I don't know,” smiled Merlin, lowering his lashes. “I think the old goat liked it.”

Arthur slid his hand up Merlin's thigh, under the table, and Merlin stopped it with his own.

“Don't do that,” he said. “I'm serious. He was touching me.”

 

 

Two hours later in Morgana's rooms, Merlin was no longer saying no. Kay was kissing him as Arthur watched, sly hands stroking over his arse. Across the room, Morgana watched also; her arms were round the neck of a well-muscled knight with dark hair crisp on his bare chest. There were tiny silver clamps attached to his nipples; every so often she'd tease at one of them, twisting, drawing guttural sounds from him.

Merlin had his eyes closed, and slow rippling movements pushed his hips against Kay, over and over. He was beautiful, lost in his own sensuality; Arthur's wine hung loosely in his hand, and one finger stroked idly over the curve of the goblet.

“Pretty,” observed Morgana.

“Isn't he,” said Arthur.

Morgana stood, leaving the dark-haired knight behind, and went over to Merlin and Kay; she trailed slender fingers over Kay's shoulders, Merlin's fingertips. Arthur felt himself come alert as she touched Merlin, his fingers neatening themselves on the stem of his goblet as if on the hilt of a sword. Kay and Merlin broke apart; Arthur lost sight of Merlin's face as he leaned his cheek against Kay and looked at Morgana.

Morgana stroked the back of Kay's neck, then slowly scraped her nails down it; he shivered. But her green eyes were fixed on Merlin, and that considering look was in them again. Arthur rose, and went to Merlin himself; he set a hand on his taut waist and saw a flash of sharp cheekbone as Merlin reflexively glanced back. Merlin leaned into Arthur a little, drawing Kay with him as the other knight swayed under Morgana's touch.

“Perhaps you'd like to join us next door,” Morgana said. She was talking to Merlin, not to him.

Merlin – and Arthur after him – glanced at the door that led into Morgana's bedchamber. The four of them and Morgana's knight were alone in this room; but they weren't the only ones there by any means. From the unseen bed came soft sounds of pleasure, and people had been coming and going all night, knowing eyes skating over Arthur and Merlin as they touched, or didn't touch.

Through the hand on Merlin's slim side, Arthur could feel the indecision in him; a shift as if he meant to step forward, and then a sway back again. Kay opened hazy brown eyes and smiled, just for Merlin; even Arthur swallowed at that sight. Kay was wanton.

“I'd like that, Merlin,” said Kay. “I want to suck you off.”

Arthur's hand tightened on Merlin's waist, at the same moment Merlin shifted his weight, his shoulders pressing back against Arthur's chest. It peeled him away from Kay, a narrow V of space opening between them.

“Maybe another time,” Merlin said, awkward. He blushed; Arthur slid his hand onto Merlin's flat belly, over the girdle he gave him. He turned his face a little towards Merlin's cheek, watching Morgana warily. And at long last, she looked Arthur in the eyes.

“I didn't think you'd be up to it,” she said mockingly.

“Perhaps this isn't yours to take,” he replied. He drew Merlin a little further back, a little closer.

“I'm yours any time,” murmured Kay. He wasn't looking at Merlin any more; the fathomless depth of lust in his eyes was suddenly focused on Arthur. Morgana reached round and pinched Kay's nipple hard between her nails; he threw his head back with a drawn-out hiss, and Arthur felt Merlin move again, an instinctive recoiling from this bizarre tableau.

Arthur set down his goblet and steered a willing Merlin towards the door; as they went, Morgana was manhandling Kay to the table, and the dark-haired knight was getting to his feet, his eyes gleaming with interest.

Out in the hall, Arthur pulled Merlin roughly against his body, and held him there for a moment before kissing him. Merlin wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck, and Arthur could feel the relief in him, in the way he moulded himself to Arthur. His lips were warm, his tongue still sharp and teasing; his skirts pressed against Arthur's thighs, where they were meant to be.

“That was a mistake," said Arthur, when they break apart. “This? This is just for us.”

Merlin dropped his head onto Arthur's shoulder, forehead against his neck. Arthur felt him nod.

 

 

But a kind of obscure family seemed to have adopted them as its own, having once seen them in Morgana's chambers; the next time, they were invited by the dark-haired knight who'd been Morgana's plaything and a lady who seemed to be his wife, and disappointment was plain on their faces when Merlin declined. Two more of Arthur's own knights independently stopped him in hallways to tell him they couldn't believe he wasn't coming along, and when he escaped to his chambers he found Merlin pacing up and down, and barely managed to close the door before he had an armful of blue linen and anxiety, talking at him ninety to the dozen about how the whole castle seemed to know. He gave in, but on a condition; and when they arrived at Morgana's, Merlin had a little silver chain coiled round his wrist. Arthur made a show of pulling Merlin down onto his lap, the skirts of his blue gown pouring downwards; he stroked the soft bare skin on the inside of Merlin's arm, every time he took off one of the coils. Merlin played up to it; kissed Arthur, but slid down to the floor and watched under his lashes as Kay undressed Galahad. Arthur let himself be the jealous lover, allowed Merlin to stray only as far as the end of the silver chain before he looped it round his fingers and drew him back; Merlin passed the evening at his feet, talking with the other men and women who seemed to be under the command of their companions. There was something childlike about the way they smiled and touched Merlin's hand; Arthur found it didn't nettle him when they touched Merlin's hair, and had to suppress a laugh as a fair-haired woman suggested that Merlin let them paint him, and Merlin turned scarlet and stammered. He pulled Merlin back against his chair, and murmured, "One thing at a time."

Arthur took him home early; inside his own chambers, he drew him close by the silver chain, and pulled his wrist gently behind him with it as he kissed his lovely lips. Merlin's free hand came up to cup his face, and Arthur pressed him close, felt him make a playful little struggle that melted as he caressed Merlin's neck, and was replaced with that long slow rippling thrust. That night, for the first time, Merlin took Arthur's hand and slid it under his skirts, let him wrap it around his cock; Arthur couldn't stop looking at him, drinking in the arch of his body and the roll of his head, the breathy sounds of pleasure he made as Arthur stroked him. When he came he gave a little cry that went right to Arthur's core, Arthur kissed him as the flush faded fom his cheeks; Merlin looked up at him with eyes like a summer ocean, and touched his cheek in turn.

“I think I could get to like being yours,” he said softly.

 

 

Eventually, to Merlin's shy delight, Arthur did let the fair-haired woman paint his face; when she'd finished, Merlin turned to Arthur and smiled, and Arthur blinked away astonishment at the effect of the dark shadowing on his eyes. Merlin didn't miss it, and his smile took on a mischievous edge. Arthur had his hands full for the rest of the evening, as Merlin wriggled on his lap and teased him without mercy. On Merlin's birthday, Arthur allowed him kisses; Kay and Yvain and even Galahad clustered around him, each trying to charm their way into his arms, and Merlin smiled and told them "One thing at a time." Yvain - the dark-haired knight - was remarkably gentle; Galahad was clearly somewhat shy of Arthur's wrath. Kay had no such scruples, and snaked insolent hands down Merlin's slim body until Arthur grew annoyed, and rose to take Merlin back. He was only too aware of the speculative glances Morgana still favoured Merlin with, and he'd seen a look flash between Morgana and Kay just before Kay touched Merlin. As Arthur settled Merlin across his lap again, possessively stroking his thigh, Morgana narrowed her eyes, and ran the tip of a hunting crop less than gently down Kay's naked back.


	11. Bacchanalia

Now, it's long past Misrule Day or even Beltane; it's late June, blazing and lush. And Arthur stands in front of a hall full of people, still patiently waiting for Merlin to arrive.

“Still got no idea why you're going through with this,” says Bedevere. “The king's going to be livid when he finds out.”

“Well, naturally I -”

The door to the hall crashes open; Arthur turns, and the witty comeback dies in his throat. There in the doorway, arms flung wide as the doors rebound from the walls, is Merlin.  
He steps forward, a bouquet of painfully elegant lilies hanging from one hand, and sashays down the aisle. He wears white, ice-white silk, with a toxic sheen like some freeze-distilled liquor, and as his hips sway the skirt billows and flows, rippling like the sunlight, like Merlin's body itself. His collarbones stand out sharply in the wide curved neckline, and his arms are bare and pefect, the shoulders angular and the muscles faintly defined.

Arthur swallows, and as fast as that, he's hard; his cock strains painfully at his breeches. As Merlin comes up beside him, he glances down, and up again at Arthur with knowing eyes. Arthur has to force himself to take a breath. Merlin's wearing eyeliner.

Father Miller is not doing much better than Arthur is, though he looks purely startled, rather than dumbstruck with lust. Arthur thought Merlin had talked to him beforehand; obviously not about the outfit. He's standing there next to Arthur with his hips and shoulders doing something impossible, his whole body hanging as if he's draped over some invisible surface; he flicks his eyebrows at the priest, and gives him an impatient toss of his head.

“Ahem,” says Father Miller. “My lords and ladies; your highness. We are gathered upon this solemn occasion -”

“Speak for yourself,” says a voice from behind. It's Morgana, sweeping down the aisle in chainmail and bracers, a sword slung at her side. Arthur narrows his eyes.

“I think it's a right fucking laugh,” she said. “Need someone to give you away, gorgeous?”

Merlin looks her up and down with a lingering glance, and a slow smile tugs at his mouth.

“Sounds like an offer I can't refuse,” he says.

It _would_ be today Merlin chose to play with this. Arthur rips off one of his leather gloves and throws it down in front of Morgana.

“My, aren't we the traditionalist,” says Morgana, and draws her sword.

“Out of the way, Merlin,” says Arthur. Merlin looks him right in the eyes and wets his lips as he glides past. Arthur focuses on Morgana, knowing that lust and bloodlust are coalescing into one, and that his eyes are glittering with it.

Morgana fights like she talks; sharp, fast and clever. She feints and dodges, slashing and dancing out of his reach; he corners her against the altar and she vaults it, sending a silver chalice flying, scattering blood-red wine onto the yellow cloth. Arthur leaps onto the table after her, and she's stuck in the window embrasure; the point of his sword and her white throat both freeze, hovering inches apart.

“Do you yield, sir?” asks Arthur, in a dangerous tone.

“The better knight has bested me,” she says, with a bitter smile curling about her lips. Arthur leaps down from the table, takes the front of her hauberk in his hand, and swings her round till he can push her down onto the altar, her hair falling across it before her shoulders touch. He bends over her, and claims an icy kiss.

“This is the last time,” he says, quietly.

When he stands, it's to see Father Miller producing a wine bottle from beneath his robes and refilling the chalice, with a knowing smile. Behind him, Merlin is draped over Bedevere, kissing him in a messy tangle of lips and tongues.

Arthur vaults the altar table and pulls Merlin off him. In the half-instant before Merlin slaps him hard across the face, he sees Bedevere shoot him a look that says he takes back everything about why Arthur's doing this.

Arthur shakes his head with a growl of appreciation, and pushes Merlin back into place before the altar. As Merlin steps back his heel catches in the train of his skirt, and he nearly falls; Arthur holds him up with a merciless grip on his arm, and an equally merciless smile. Merlin pouts and flushes, lips red and swollen, lust lighting up his own face.

“I think this is going to be a beautiful union,” says the priest, picking a grape off the bunches that wreath the altar and eating it. “Bacchus will be very proud. Now stand the fuck still while we get you married.”

 

 

As Merlin stands there, Father Miller's words drifting over him like clouds across the sky, Arthur stands next to him, chin tilted up, that dry little smile lighting his face. Merlin looks at him under his lashes, biting the inside of his lip to quell the swelling of emotion he feels, and the smile draws him away into memory. He's back in Arthur's chamber again on May morning, the day after Beltane; sunlight is falling bloody on his wine-red dress and burnishing Arthur's hair.

“Why do you never...” Arthur flicked his eyes down at Merlin's cock, half-hard as they lazed against each other on the bed.

“I don't – I don't know,” said Merlin. “I just...” He laid his hand on Arthur's chest. “It doesn't seem right.”

Arthur took hold of him, a broad hand on his back, and rolled them over, pulling Merlin up until he was lying on Arthur's chest.

“Merlin,” he said, “Marry me.”

“What?” laughed Merlin, disbelieving. “You can't!”

“I can,” said Arthur. “Father Miller will.”

Merlin remembers that he thought for a second his heart had stopped. He'd looked down at Arthur wide-eyed; took his weight on his own arms, holding himself up in case Arthur should evaporate, along with this moment. Suspicion warred with trust; this was Arthur, this was Camelot, this wasn't a simple world.

“Just for -?” He glanced down.

Arthur looked almost surprised. “No. Because I want you here.”

Merlin looked down at him, searchingly; Arthur just looked into his eyes, honest and serene. As if it could never have occurred to him to want anything else. And Merlin realised that he wasn't looking at the mask; that here, where his skirts spread like a flood over Arthur's realm and drowned the real beneath the possible, Arthur was free. As free as he was. He hung there a moment, breathing; felt Arthur's wide and solid shape bearing him up, his own weight lithe and slender by comparison.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

Arthur lit up in a smile, and pulled Merlin into a kiss; Merlin hadn't enough arms to wrap round him and let him know how he felt. By the time Arthur pulled back, they'd rolled over, and Merlin was on his back, looking up at a glint of mischief in Arthur's eyes.

“Of course,” Arthur said, “you'll have to let me know what sort of silk you need. To make yourself a dress, I mean.”

“Oh,” groaned Merlin, and thrust up against him, instantly hard.

 

 

“Right,” says Father Miller. “You're hitched. Kiss him, before he gets hold of anyone else.”

Arthur sweeps Merlin round, bends him backwards over his knee, and brushes his lips so, so gently over Merlin's. Merlin gasps, arches up, trying for more; Arthur pulls back, denying him. The room bursts out in whoops and cheers as they stare at one another, the electricity of impasse crackling between them.

They don't bother leaving the hall for the reception; as Arthur pulls Merlin to his feet again people are dragging out hip flasks and wine skins from sleeves and pockets, and in a couple of truly irredeemable cases, codpieces. The seats and benches are supplemented with tables standing around the walls, and servants come racing in with vast platters of food. Arthur pulls Merlin across his lap, down onto a great high-backed throne of a chair, and keeps him there, feeding him strawberries and sips of wine. They watch the guests, feeding each other tidbits, sharing cups, stealing kisses; once in a while, Arthur shifts a little, moving his cock against Merlin's slim, muscled thigh; and every so often Merlin turns to kiss him, biting at his lips, tasting of crushed fruit. When he does, Arthur bites back, flickers his tongue into Merlin's mouth, withdraws and takes a swallow of searing apple brandy. If this is any part of what it is to be king, however tiny, he'll be happy.

Not all of the guests stay long; there are heated looks flashing between some of them, knight and lady, knight and knight, knight and lady and knight again. Arthur and Merlin's reputation as members of Morgana's second court has had long enough to spread, and pretty much no-one in the room is among the older, more staid members of the true court; those few who are are tolerant souls, but still make quick exits. They leave behind them a room littered with cushions, cushions littered with the other guests, tables littered with food, and beside one of them, Merlin and Arthur. Merlin's skirt flows down to the floor from Arthur's lap; it's heavy, and beneath it it seems to trap incredible warmth.

Merlin lifts Arthur's chin, kisses him, slow and deep; and slowly loosens the laces of his doublet, revealing the white of his shirt. He spreads his hand on Arthur's chest, over the cloth; then slides it down, and pinches Arthur's nipple, slowly tightening his grip. Arthur groans into the kiss, pressing Merlin down against him; his hand on Merlin's thigh is dangerously close to his groin.

“Arthur,” says Morgana's voice. “Would you do me a favour?”

He breaks away from Merlin, angry. Morgana will not listen, it seems.

“No,” he says.

She drops a loop of soft leather over the end of the chair arm.

“Won't take a minute,” she says. “I'll be back.”

From the soft tan leather hangs a golden chain, with little gems dropping from it at intervals; at the other end of the chain is a gold ring, pierced through - Gwen. Not Kay this time; one of Gwen's brown nipples. She's naked, and kneeling. She looks up at Arthur with wide, sloe-black eyes; she seems almost scared. He's never even seen her at Morgana's parties before. He feels Merlin shift on his lap, lean forward.

“Well, aren't you the pretty one,” he says, and reaches out to gently lift the golden ring in her nipple, and let it drop again. Something flickers across Gwen's face; it could be pleasure, but it could be fear. Arthur runs his nails slowly down Merlin's back, and Merlin arches a little, his backside pressing against Arthur's cock.

“No,” he says quietly. “We're not playing with her.”

Merlin gives him a smoky look. “Where's the fun in that?” he says. He's really on a high today, behaving nearly as badly as Kay; Arthur supposes that's only to be expected, if he will do something as daft as marry the man.

“Mine, mostly,” says Morgana, reappearing with a goblet in her hand. She sips from it, watching Arthur evenly. Arthur loses patience; he picks up the leather loop, tightening the chain. Gwen comes up onto her knees, has to lean forward and follow his movement as the chain pulls taut.

“You really shouldn't give away things you value,” he says. “I wouldn't. As I believe I've made quite clear.” In his hand the chain transmits tiny vibrations; he thinks Gwen is shaking. Merlin looks from Arthur to Morgana; Arthur feels his body shift, as it had once before in Morgana's rooms. Then he kicks out his skirt and stands, twitching the train out of range of Arthur's boots. It's Gwen he goes to, sliding his hands onto her shoulders, and gently lifting her to her feet. He puts his mouth very close to her ear, and looks straight at Arthur for a very, very long moment before he speaks.

“He's right,” he says.

He lifts Gwen's golden chain with a finger, and the clasp that holds it to the ring in her nipple springs free, as if by itself. Arthur opens his hand, feeling something untwist in him as he does it, and watches as Merlin tosses the golden leash onto the floor at Morgana's feet. Morgana seems to knot up tighter; she stares with cold eyes at Arthur, curls her lip and stalks away. Gwen lets out a long shaky breath, and shoots Merlin a grateful look.

"I'd get yourself a stiff drink," Merlin tells her kindly, as she too turns away. "You look like you need it."

“Merlin,” says Arthur, commanding; he wants that satin weight back on his lap, pressing on his cock. He wants to kiss Merlin for what he just did, the decision he made. Merlin tilts his head, challenge in his eyes, not moving an inch.

Arthur realises Merlin's taller than him now. Dear god, he must be wearing heels. And, oh yes, now he's standing, now the satin skirt can't pool in his lap and disguise it; Merlin's hard. There's that long, obscene shape, lying against his belly, fallen to one side. Morgana evaporates from his mind; what in Hades is he wearing _under_ that dress? Arthur stands, and steps over to him, hands settling on his hips.

“Shall we dance?” says Merlin, and presses himself against Arthur. That long slow undulation drifts down Merlin's body; Arthur follows it, drawing him close, stroking slow, possessive hands down his backside to his thigh. He can feel tantalising outlines; nothing he recognises at all. What _is_ it? He palms the slick satin over Merlin's arse, lifts it an inch or two, lets it slide loose again. Merlin's cock hardens more, moving with a will of its own against him. Arthur feels something starting to flare in his belly; the slow understanding of what Merlin is now, of what the words they spoke at the altar mean. Body, heart and mind; it's not just a game any more. He thinks Merlin knows that, too.

“So,” says Merlin. “Time to say goodnight?”

Arthur lets his eyes wander slowly around the room. Whoever had the foresight to bring the cushions was a genius; everywhere people are sprawling on them, silk and velvet are spreading open, slowly giving way to skin. Lips and fingers trail over smooth bellies and bare arms; Morgana's nowhere to be seen at all, but there's a sharp _crack_ from a corner, and a woman's voice gives a throaty moan. Against the wall, Kay is shirtless, pressed against an enraptured Bedevere. Kay's olive-skinned, almost like Lancelot, and with his head thrown back he's a work of art, all lines and tension. This is the other Camelot in all its glory; and yet it's not what Arthur wants at all.

He looks at Merlin's face, smudged dark eyes, hair artfully ruffled, framing him; his eyes look wild, and full of love. By way of an answer to Merlin's question, he pulls him down for a kiss.  
A scattering of applause greets them; scarlet and blond, dark and white, they're the focus of the room. Arthur dips Merlin again, deepens the kiss, runs his hand along that long smooth thigh, not quite lifting the gown; a little show, a nod to the world they're standing in. The coiling awareness that there's much, much more to come strengthens, and he doesn't break the kiss for a long time. Catcalls and whoops join the clapping. They come back to their feet amid shouts of “Good health!” and ribald jokes, and Arthur raises his hand for silence.

“People of Camelot,” he says, in his finest public speaking voice. “Your prince finds himself hard pressed, or at least he would like to.” A laugh – and a concealed shiver on his part – as Merlin snakes a hand around Arthur's hip, spreads it next to his cock. “And so I depart with my appalling bride. Don't break anything we can't replace.”

Laughter and more applause eddies around them; he takes Merlin's hand and lifts it high. And so they leave the revel; a prince, hard, proud in his youth and beauty, and Merlin in white with his skirt flowing behind him, corrupting the very air that moves it. Sorcerer, virgin, and slut.


	12. The Purest Night

Outside the air is cooler; they walk a little way down the hall. Merlin stops, falls back against the wall, as if welcoming its cool touch on his shoulders; his head tilts back, exposing the long line of his throat. Arthur steps close to him, dips his head to ghost his lips along that beautiful column.

“The things you do to me, Merlin,” he says quietly.

Merlin's shoulders lift and fall in a sigh, and he smiles.

“I can't help it,” he says.

“Never said you should,” said Arthur, and strokes his palm over Merlin's cock, still lying against his belly, betraying him.

“Shall we?” he says.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” says Merlin.

Arthur looks into his eyes, and the uncertainty he sees there cools his ardour. He strokes Merin's cheek with his thumb.

“I didn't make those promises for nothing,” he says.

There's a moment then when they're back at the altar again; the same words hang between them, tangible, each of them looking at the other with the same amazement, the same heart-stopping depth. _Love and comfort; body, heart and mind._

“No,” says Merlin. He smiles, and it touches Arthur; washes over him like cool water after a dusty road. “No, nor did I.”

Arthur takes his hand, and they walk towards his chambers. On the threshold he smiles too, opens the door and lifts a laughing Merlin over the threshold. A swoop of satin follows him as he turns. He sets Merlin on his feet again inside; the door closes behind them.

And the world is different. Merlin stands there in Arthur's own chamber, a column of white, looking at him with a smudged, provocative gaze. Suddenly the masquerade is gone for good, and a bubble of fear is in the air. There's no theatre here, no room full of wanton eyes; this isn't a time for showing themselves off, tempting without giving. And it's not a slow day of sun on sleepy hands, lazy kisses that have no motive but joy; this is their wedding night, the first of the new world. The masquerade is gone, the masks are gone, and the faces behind them are Merlin and Arthur; for the first time, this is real. In this silence, Arthur too feels a prickle of apprehension; but Merlin, white as a guiding star, dark as night sky, is his key. The anchor that will help him ride out the coming storm.

He goes to Merlin, and lays gentle hands on his waist; the satin is flawless, Merlin's skin beneath it a breath away, warm. Firm where a woman's skin is soft, made of planes and angles Arthur traces with fingertips, where a woman is curves. Merlin's hands come up, touch his shoulders; Arthur feels encompassed, Merlin looking down at him, beautiful. Merlin lays his palm on Arthur's chest, curls fingers round his bicep, as if for the first time. Arthur looks up, and their lips meet in a kiss; soft and tender, the antithesis of everything the outside world ever saw. Arthur's hand slides on Merlin's waist, his back, gliding on the satin; Merlin cups Arthur's jaw, lays the other hand possessively on his hip. They cleave together; the prince and the witch, the lovely and the strange.

 

 

Merlin finds the height advantage odd; it's new to be looking down at Arthur like this, and never any less extraordinary to see his eyes unguarded. He's looking up at Merlin with desire and courage; Merlin feels it almost as if it's his own. He touches Arthur carefully, slowly, as if this fragile feeling might shatter; it's a bauble of glass enclosing a single breath. But Arthur is solid, real; kisses him tenderly. Merlin feels the ifs and the maybes melting away, the room opening up into a vast realm of the possible. He slides his finger into the laces of the scarlet doublet, finishes unfastening it; and pushes it slowly off Arthur's shoulders. It hits the floor like a skin he doesn't need, leaving his broad, strong back under a shirt so white and crisp. Merlin curls his hands round the shapes of it, the muscle, his arms; kisses Arthur again and deepens it. Gods, he wants this; wants Arthur for himself, time and peace for them to strip out of themselves, be whatever it is they are when there's nothing else left.

“Merlin,” says Arthur softly, his voice rough with lust. “I want to see – I want...”

 _What's underneath_. His hands spread themselves on Merlin's arse, and Merlin swallows a sound as the satin moves on his skin. He reaches behind himself to take Arthur's hands, and steps back, leading him to the bed.

 

 

Merlin sits down on the edge of the bed, and Arthur follows him down, sinking to one knee. He looks down at Merlin's skirt, a labyrinth of pearlescent folds; and up again to a face tinted gold by candlelight, into wide, intent eyes. He reaches into the labyrinth, lifts Merlin's foot, and sets it on his thigh. Merlin draws in a slow breath as Arthur slides both his hands down his calf; he lifts the hem, slides his hands underneath, and feels leather, soft as the satin itself, warm over Merlin's skin. Boots; boots that reach to the knee. They're white, and they lace with silken ribbons. He lifts up Merlin's skirt, and the shapes he can feel come clear; they're heeled, elegantly tall, even the sole built up a little. Looking down at them, he leans forward half absently to kiss Merlin's knee, and stops, a sound in his throat. Over Merlin's knee stretches a silk stocking so fine it's translucent, a winter sheen over pale, smooth skin.

 

 

Arthur makes a deep, deep sound when he sees the stockings, a wordless acknowledgement that vibrates in his chest; he looks up at Merlin and Merlin's lips part, answering the intensity in his eyes. He smiles, and Arthur's hands slide up, carrying his skirt with them, slowly revealing his thigh.

The garters are perfect; delicate ivory lace, threaded with silk ribbons of the palest blue. Above them his skin is smooth, hairless. Arthur lifts the trailing tails of ribbon, lets them slide through his fingers, bends and kisses Merlin's thigh. Merlin closes his eyes, and hears himself sigh.

The warmth and pressure of Arthur against his knees moves back, disappears; then Arthur's hands touch his shoulders, cup them and gently lower him down. He opens his eyes, watching Arthur, predatory now as he bends over Merlin; and goes down only far enough to lean on his elbows, canting his hips.

 

 

Merlin watches him with open desire in his eyes, as Arthur lays him gently back; but he won't lie flat, watching. His body moves sinuously, unashamedly presenting his cock, still sheathed in silk. Arthur parts Merlin's thighs; pauses, and takes off his shirt, so that when he leans forward between them, lace garters and silk stockings and skin caress his sides. He kisses the satin over Merlin's flat belly, pushes his hands beneath it where it pools in gleaming chaos around his thighs, and lifts it away.

Beneath it is something beautiful in its sheer obscenity. They are – Arthur can't name them; like a tiny, helpless version of his own underthings, ivory silk cascading into a ruffle, barely supported over Merlin's sharp hipbones by another ribbon of blue. And they're tight, so tight over his balls, pulled taut by the long hard cock that distorts them, spots them with wetness at its tip. He leans down and mouths that wet spot, and under him Merlin's belly tightens, a gasp coming to his ears.

Mouth still on the tip of Merlin's cock, he picks up the blue ribbon, tugs slowly until the little love-knot slides loose. He slips a finger under the cloth, loosens it delicately; and as he does so, kisses down Merlin's cock. Merlin gives a sharp, impatient hiss of breath. Arthur slowly, slowly slides his fingertips down over Merlin's hips, dragging silk with them; and slowly, slowly, the smooth hard shape of his cock reveals itself. For that brief moment, Merlin is all he can see and feel and taste; skin and sweat and purity, and a satin gown of white.

 

 

Merlin wants to smile, to delight in shattering Arthur's polished charm as his cock slips free and Arthur makes that sound of amazement again. But Arthur takes him into his mouth, heat like August sun hitting his skin; instead, he groans and lets his head fall back. Arthur's never done this to him before; but he stills Merlin's hips with his hands and caresses the shapes of his cock with his tongue, and the barest hints of teeth. Merlin breathes, trying to steady himself, and Arthur's thumb rubs the silk panties across his balls. The feel of it on his smooth, shaven skin nearly overwhelms him; he moans, and Arthur backs off, his mouth swollen. He looks up at Merlin with breathtaking eyes.

“Arthur, come here,” he demands huskily. Arthur slides slowly up, his weight dipping the bed. Merlin draws him down and kisses him, pulls him down until he's a radiant weight on his chest; then he rolls them over. He straddles Arthur in a chaos of satin and bites at his mouth, pushing in his tongue; Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin, binding them, thrusting against him. Merlin digs his fingers into Arthur's arm, scratches nails down his side. Then abruptly he pulls back, slithers off Arthur and stands; he lifts his own skirt, and slips the dress off over his head. It ripples to the ground, leaving him bare-chested, in silk stockings and boots and half-out of silk underwear. He slides the little panties down, wriggling his hips; Arthur says “God,” as they slide down his legs, and he steps out of them.

Merlin looks at him, breathing hard, and says “Get undressed.”

 

 

Merlin's hands are over Arthur's as they unlace his breeches, he's biting and kissing Arthur's neck as he pulls off his boots. Arthur is pushed back, Merlin's chest against his, Merlin's mouth a wordless curse as it slides against his lips.

“Where's that -” whispers Merlin, and both of them grab for something under the pillow at the same moment, moving in a tangle of long limbs; Merlin's stockings are rubbing against Arthur's cock, and it sends a grasping need through him. Arthur has the jar, Merlin takes off the lid; he digs his fingers into it, and his fingers slip as he roughly pulls Arthur's thigh across his own. And then Arthur's arching his back and groaning as Merlin's slick fingers press against him; this is new, too, but oh, they've been preparing for it. Merlin slides one finger in, Arthur aches and breathes, trying to relax; Merlin strokes his stockinged thigh over Arthur's cock again, and Arthur gives, steadily, Merlin's mouth over his a constant reassurance. He feels himself stretching, loosening; feels Merlin anchoring him, the beauty of his strangeness equal to the beauty of this feeling.

“Merlin,” he says.

Merlin pulls back from his lips, looks at him with blue, blue eyes; he smiles.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” says Arthur softly.

Love and comfort; body, heart and mind. They turn, sliding into place around each other. Merlin lifts Arthur's thigh again, kisses Arthur's shoulder, and then – then Arthur stops being, somehow; as Merlin's sliding inside him, drawing back and entering again, he's nothing that he was. He's opening; he's overwhelmed. Whole, as he feels his lover inside him for the first time. He reaches for Merlin's hand, where it holds his hip; clasps it, lacing their fingers together. Merlin wraps their arms across Arthur's belly, and makes love to him. Lace and stockings brush his skin, and neither of them makes a sound but for soft breaths, eddies at the edge of the world.

It seems to last forever; Arthur's whole body seems to have become a single point of sensation, as though Merlin inside him is fucking not his body, but his soul. He feels every movement, as if neither he nor Merlin is anything outside this connection, as if they only exist here. Merlin's breath against his skin comes faster, his thrusts pick up; and his hand, still joined to Arthur's, pushes down towards Arthur's cock. Arthur follows the movement, lets their hands rest over it – but then Merlin shifts, pulls himself up a little so that his angle changes, and Arthur closes his eyes and gasps. Merlin's sliding away from control, the rhythm taking over, but he's hitting something inside. Arthur hears himself making little breathy sobs of pleasure as it shocks and builds, over and over, a beautiful tension he can't help but roll his hips into. Merlin feels him moving; his lips against Arthur's neck half-form a word Arthur can't hear, and he wraps their joined hands around Arthur's cock. Arthur feels Merlin's strokes focus even more, every one flashing through his body, and his thighs and balls and belly are filling with an overwhelming sweet pain. It's working through him, moving him, moving Merlin too – the wave of it is inexorable, rising. It crests, and breaks. He feels his body ground itself into Merlin; Merlin gives a sharp cry and snaps his hips into Arthur, and Arthur feels Merlin's cock inside him like a blessing as they shake, together.

 

 

Silence seems to wrap itself about them as they drift, subtle and dangerous as silk; and like silk, like the ice-white dress that lies tumbled on the floor, the silence is home. They drowse, the white wedding coverlet tugged lazily over them, the candles guttering low.

“You're beautiful, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, stroking his side.

“Not so bad yourself,” murmurs Merlin, closing his eyes.


	13. Epilogue

“I do most humbly submit, Your Majesty,” says the oleaginous little twerp standing in front of the throne, “that this is a matter that requires your most urgent attention.”

  
Really, reflects Merlin as he lounges at Arthur's right hand, the idea behind his robes had been a stroke of pure genius on Arthur's part. As most of Arthur's strokes of genius tended to, it hadn't sounded like one at the time; he'd waved an irritable hand, dismissing Merlin's fretting, and said “Just make yourself something that does the job.”  
  
But when Merlin had thought about it, that was exactly the point. Something that was flowing enough to give him that sense of freedom, but not too sensual, not so that he'd be unable to concentrate. Of course, the fact that what he'd come up with was not altogether dissimilar in effect to Gaius's robes was also a great help there.  
  
Arthur looks down at the twerp with regal aloofness; Merlin restrains the urge to roll his eyes. He leans forward in his seat.  
  
“Humility,” he says tartly, “is not how I would describe the actions of a minor noble expecting the throne of Albion to help him build what sounds, in essence, very like a barn.”  
  
“Sire, a garrison is hardly a -”  
  
“The King isn't talking to you, I am,” snaps Merlin. “And addressing anyone other than His Majesty as Sire is treason. There has been not the slightest suspicion of trouble between Albion and Cendric's kingdom for twenty years, and yet you wish to build a garrison. Are you trying to provoke a war?”  
  
“Of course not, Your... er... my lord Merlin,” he stumbles. Merlin does love to watch all these silly noble boys, so rigidly brought up on protocol, falling flat on their faces simply because he has no official title to use.   
  
“Ah,” he pounces. “So you admit, then, that by far the most likely use of such a building, were Camelot to fund it, would be as a storehouse for the considerable surplus of grain your estate produces every year? And, I might add, a remarkably convenient one for the high road to Cendric's lands?”  
  
The twerp flounders, and shoots a desperate glance at Arthur.  
  
“Tell me, Lord Blane, I have not visited Cendric in many a year,” Arthur says kindly. “Is it still true that taxes are not paid on grain imports to his lands?”  
  
Merlin watches the twerp's face fall, as he realises exactly what he's just been caught doing.  
  
Arthur has a reputation as a wise, just and even-handed king. Merlin, on the other hand, is universally loathed; things like “so sharp he'll cut himself” and “nasty little bitch” are the things that get said about him. It's popularly believed that he loves nothing more than for Arthur to bend him over the throne itself and bugger him senseless in the middle of the night – at least, it is among the people who've tried to get one over on Arthur and failed. Every now and then, Merlin meets someone who's intrigued instead; who keenly watches the interplay between him and Arthur and yet treats the crown with respect. He sees the speculation in their eyes, and sometimes, if they turn out to be Morgana's kind of folk – which they often do – he contrives to let them glimpse him smiling into Arthur's eyes. Not that Arthur and he often attend Morgana's soirées any more; only on truly special occasions, now.   
  
Gwen, on the other hand, comes to visit them quite often. Merlin's pleasant appreciation at the sight of Lord Weaselface being ushered out through a side door under the thunderous supervision of the royal tax collector is overlaid with something altogether lovelier: the fresh memory of Arthur holding Guinevere by a leash of woven silk, and slipping her muslin shift down tawny skin. Remembering the potent mix of fear and adoration in Gwen's eyes as she opened to her king has him crossing his legs for propriety's sake, despite the loose robes. Maybe tonight he'll invite her again. Maybe, next time she's with them, he'll take her too.  
  
  
  
A formal procession follows Arthur down from the throne; Merlin is nearly at its head, only a pace behind the king himself. He watches the way Arthur comes slowly back to life, step by step: as he's disrobed, uncrowned, unwrapped. Reduced from the king of Albion to merely a man. Merlin watches, somehow amused. There are so many layers of truth and falsity to what he and Arthur are; and so few people understand.  
  
No; nobody does, really. Gwen has a dim suspicion of what they really are; Morgana's friends a dimmer one. But the truth of it, the truth of Merlin and Arthur as they are behind closed doors, the mystery of them; that's a different thing. That's a satin gown lying on a grey stone floor, and in a rich bed hung with velvet, two young men, woven through and around each other, learning the world again.  
  
Ever since that day, when they woke in streaming sun and looked at each other with startled eyes, things have been different. It's as if the world doesn't quite fit them any more. Merlin remembers, every time he sees Arthur half-dressed, how the prince had sat up in bed that day, and for the first time in his life decided to get out his own clothes. Merlin had laughed, and imperiously directed him with the heel of a white leather boot; Arthur had turned round, looked at him with a searing gaze. He'd taken in the smudges of kohl still emphasising Merlin's eyes, and his cock lying loose on his thigh; then he'd put down the shirt he was holding, and walked straight back to the bed. He'd playfully tussled with Merlin for the boot, looking down at him all the while with lethal eyes; Merlin remembers letting go of it and Arthur pressing him down, but beyond that he's almost forgotten who fucked who, because it hardly matters any more.  
  
People stare after them in the hallways and whisper in locked rooms, and lords from a dozen kingdoms have come to Camelot just to glimpse them, to try to solve the puzzle. They're a mystery that people hate, or envy, or want passionately to solve. All of those curious lords have left with nothing but rumour. Alliances too maybe, or wives, or knowing looks from some of Camelot's handsome, muscled knights – but none of them, not one, has ever truly understood. Arthur and Merlin are a thing apart; they stepped hand in hand into the deepest worlds of lechery, and down in the depths of it they created something beautiful, something pure.   
  
At last, the myriad servants retire, taking with them Arthur's robes and crown; he glances invitingly at Merlin, and they leave side by side.  
  
Merlin closes Arthur's chamber door; the room really is hung with tapestries now, beautiful and priceless, and only here and there can a few of his old favourite things be discerned. A battered chair with a sheepskin on it; a chest that once supported a cloak and a sword.  
  
“I really don't know what I'd do without you,” says Arthur, as Merlin vanishes behind a screen. The affection in his voice is clear.  
  
“Well,” says Merlin teasingly, “you'd get into a lot less trouble with the royal guard, for one.”   
  
“As I recall,” says Arthur, amused, “that's usually your fault.”   
  
Merlin's shirt appears over the top of the screen.   
  
“How on earth did we end up here?” Arthur goes on.  
  
There's the slightest pause.  
  
“Something you said when you were drunk, actually,” says Merlin. “Years ago, after we got back from Fallon Hall.”  
  
“I don't remember that.”  
  
“No, you don't,” says Merlin. “You got completely smashed because your father had just spent the afternoon dressing you down for not bringing a treaty back.”  
  
“What did I say?”  
  
Merlin pauses again, and Arthur can almost hear him smiling.  
  
“You were very sweet.”  
  
Merlin steps out from behind the screen. He's wearing a loose, flowing gown of peacock-blue silk; it has gold embroidery trailing down the sleeves. He quirks an eyebrow, and gives Arthur a sultry smile.  
  
Arthur shakes his head fondly, leans back against the table, and opens his arms.   
  
“I've always liked it when you say nice things to me,” he says, as Merlin comes to him. Their arms slip around each other's waists almost by themselves.  
  
“Yes,” says Merlin, tilting his face up for a kiss. “That's exactly what you said.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom really seems to love its crossdressing. And I thought, given the kind of dirty-minded person that I am, that maybe I could come up with something a little bit special in that line. This fic is my present to fandom: it's dedicated to everyone out there who's having a crap Christmas, and most especially to those of you who are stuck at home with your nice normal friendly families, desperately wishing the world was a bit more queer.


End file.
